The Misconceptions of the Drunk
by thecoloursoftheworld
Summary: Angsty/fluffy E&R. He was drunk because the man who he loved had stopped caring. T because of implied sex and a crapload of alcohol


**A/N: For the lovely and ever fabulous LoverFaery. You're kind of the best ok**

* * *

Grantaire was drunk. This was not uncommon for the cynical artist; in fact, it was odd for him _not_ to be drunk at least one night a week. Tonight, however, was different. He was drunk for a reason other than self-hatred, a reason other than a fear of his past. He was drunk because the one man who cared enough to lecture and yell at him about how self-destructive and unfair it was, the man who believed in lost causes, the man who he loved, had stopped caring.

Grantaire couldn't get the words out of his head. Two words, shortly followed by another three and a ringing silence.

_You're disgusting._

_ I hate you_.

Grantaire dug the bottom of his hands into his eyes until he saw white spots explode into his vision, interrupting the sweaty blackness. He swigged the almost-empty bottle of absinthe, taking a sick kind of pleasure in the burning sensation in his stomach. Courfreyrac had tried to follow Grantaire when he walked out (leaving his phone and soft green hoodie behind) of the Musain, leaving a crowd of people staring at Enjolras, mouths open in shock.

Courfreyrac lost him after a few blocks (he was not in shape and Grantaire blended in too well) and gave up, electing to give the dark-haired man some space and time to clear his head.

Grantaire had bought several bottles of absinthe and whiskey at the first crappy convenience store he could find before walking down to the park near his flat. It was late, and the park was utterly deserted except for him. He stretched out a hand tentatively, fingertips skimming the top of the grass. His eye, unbidden, found the empty whiskey bottle a few yards away, lit up as by the overly bright moon as if some divine being wanted to punish Grantaire more, wanted to make him hate himself even more (was that even possible?).

Grantaire took a deep, shuddering breath and began to cry.

* * *

Enjolras was drunk. This was very uncommon for the young activist; he considered getting drunk to be an idiotic decision. Why poison yourself when you could be fighting for your freedom, fighting for the freedom of others? Tonight, however, was different. He was drunk for a reason other than Jehan and Courfreyrac attempting to spike his water with vodka. He was drunk because he had failed the one man who always challenged him to be the best he could be, the one man who could make his day better just by giving him a crooked smile, the one man who he loved.

Enjolras couldn't get the words out of his head. Two words, shortly followed by another three and a ringing silence.

_You're disgusting._

_ I hate you_.

Enjolras swiped a hand impatiently across his mouth, wiping it clean of excess vodka. His head was pounding already; the last time he had had this much alcohol was at a party Jehan had dragged him to, and his body was not used to the mindless abuse. Nevertheless, he swigged the almost-empty bottle of vodka, trying to think that the fire in his stomach was the alcohol counteracting the words that swam around in his subconscious, torturing him endlessly no matter how much poison he drank. Courfreyrac had followed Grantaire when he left (he left his hoodie and his phone behind too, and Enjolras looked at them now, one hand clutching the soft cotton), leaving Enjolras to the shocked stares of their collective friends. He had collapsed into his chair as soon as Grantaire was out of sight and told his friends to please leave him. Combeferre was the last to go, squeezing Enjolras' shoulder in comfort as he passed him.

Courfreyrac had sent him a text: _Lost him, but I want to give him some space and time to work it out. Also, I will gut you tomorrow, you pathetic piece of horseshit. What the fucking hell is wrong with you!? Do you have something to prove?! Are you self-conscious because you've got tiny nads? Is that why you're acting like a complete douchecanoe?_

Enjolras had not bothered to answer; he was too depressed and did not trust his drunk self with the phone. Enjolras had left the Musain shortly after Combeferre, and went to the nearest shitty convenience store to buy shittier alcohol before walking down to the park near his flat. He was reminded with a horrible jolt that he lived in the same building as Grantaire, and swigged the last of his vodka, his shaking hands spilling the disgusting-smelling liquid onto himself. He swore and dropped the bottle onto the ground.

Enjolras took a deep, shuddering breath and began to cry.

* * *

Grantaire swiped a hand across his nose and sniffled pathetically, staggering through the park, the empty bottle of absinthe hanging disparagingly from his listless fingers. He ignored the snoring security guard at the entrance to the apartment building, trudging slowly up the stairs to the fifth floor, where his flat was. He tugged the key from his jeans pocket and after several minutes of attempting, he got it into the lock and opened the door.

He did not bother glancing into the living room, with its saggy leather couch and squashy blue armchair, the same colour as Enjolras' eyes (except Grantaire definitely wasn't thinking about that), and the television that only worked half the time unless Eponine was there to work some kind of arcane magic on it. He did not bother glancing into the kitchen, with the fridge covered from top to bottom in pictures and memories and painpainpain because the drawings, the scraps of paper onto which he had left his mark, were there and he could not handle looking at more Enjolras. It was bad enough that the one in his head kept repeating himself.

_You're disgusting._

_ I hate you_.

He did not bother glancing into the bedroom, where paintings of Apollo and his friends (the latter were less painful, but to be in the same room as Apollo was too much) hung, covering up every bit of space that they could. Grantaire went straight to the bathroom, where he shed his clothes and showered, washing off the tears from his puffy, red, bloodshot-to-hell eyes and the sweat from his body. He walked into his bedroom (it was inevitable, for he needed clothing), head staring down at the floor as he searched for a pair of clean pyjama pants. This sight was no better, for there were bits of poetry (and occasionally just a few lines that served as a sort of diary) everywhere, lines he had written about Enjolras in his shaky handwriting.

One was Sellotaped to the dresser. _I love him. I feel like Molly Ringwald (mostly because Jehan won't stop playing Sixteen Candles), and I fucking love him. Shit._

Grantaire's fingers, the nails bitten to stubs as always, touched the scrap of paper. He remembered that day. The paper was torn from Enjolras' notes on the unfairness of some politician or other—there were a few words written on one side, words that Grantaire had never been able to discern fully. His eyesight apparently improved when he was drunk, and now he could read the cramped handwriting, neat and perfect as Enjolras always was.

_I love him_.

Grantaire rubbed his eyes and the words wavered in and out of sight, sometimes there, sometimes not. He stumbled back, tripping over a pile of dirty clothes. "Fuck," he muttered, swiping angrily at his eyes and hurriedly tugging on clothes before jumping up again. He did not look at the walls—he _could_ not look at the walls. He sought the living room, where he could curl up on the cold leather couch and rest till morning. He turned on the light and screamed.

* * *

Enjolras stared up at the other man through eyes bleary and red and puffy from crying. His lower lip trembled. "Hi, R," he whispered.

Grantaire's face was a mask. "What do you want."

It wasn't a question, and Enjolras winced a little bit at the coldness in his tone.

"R, I—I didn't mean it. Any of it."

_You're disgusting._

_ I hate you_.

"I'm so sorry. I was just stressed and you pushed my buttons. I don't hate you. Please, R." Enjolras' tone was pleading and Grantaire swallowed hard. He sat down in the blue armchair, folding his arms across his chest.

"Sorry?"

"God. I know it's useless, and sorry's not going to cut it, but I don't know what else to say," Enjolras said, panic creeping into his voice.

"You're fucking right it's not going to cut it!" Grantaire shouted. "You—you told me that I was _disgusting_. Do you even fucking know what that feels like? No, no you wouldn't, would you? Enjolras the bloody perfect, Enjolras who can't do anything wrong. Fuck you."

Enjolras looked down, beautiful blue eyes (oh, how Grantaire loved those eyes) filling with tears.

_You're disgusting._

_ I hate you_.

"You hate me."

Grantaire's gaze, cold and calculating, softened somewhat. "No."

Enjolras looked up again, confused (Grantaire thought privately how adorable the man was when his eyebrows knit together like that). "What?"

"I don't...hate you. I want to kill you violently, but I don't hate you."

Sensing a slim opening, Enjolras jumped. "I'm sorry, R. I mean it. I didn't think. I just—it kills me to see you drink like you do."

"You think it's idiotic. You've never had anything that you want to run from, anything that you want to forget," Grantaire said quietly.

"You're killing yourself, R, and it kills me."

"No, it doesn't. I'm just another one of your fucking charity cases. I know what I'm doing. I don't _care_."

Enjolras' mouth dropped open. "Don't say that."

"Fuck you, Apollo," Grantaire sneered.

"Don't," Enjolras said again, voice low and dangerous, "say that."

"What? Don't say that I don't care, or don't call you Apollo? Oh, but you are, Enjolras! A perfect marble statue, fiery as the sun, cold as a winter dawn."

"Grantaire, please."

Grantaire looked up. Enjolras was crying. His eyes widened and the smirk slid off of his face. He stood up and walked over to the leather couch, slowly as if he was dreaming, and knelt in front of Enjolras. His lanky frame made it so that they were still eye to eye.

_You're disgusting._

_ I hate you_.

"I don't hate you, R," Enjolras said, and Grantaire realised that he had repeated the words that had been spinning around his brain for the past hours.

"I know," he whispered.

He narrowed his eyes a little. He could count every tiny freckle on Enjolras' nose. They really were far too close to each other...

* * *

Warm. Far too warm. In fact, the bed was absolutely stifling. Grantaire refused to move, though—his entire body was cocooned in a shell of pain. His head was pounding, his limbs hurt from certain activities, and to top it all off his eyes felt swollen.

Enjolras sighed contentedly in his sleep and his arm snaked over Grantaire's chest. Grantaire smiled sleepily. His Apollo was astonishingly beautiful even in sleep. His blond curls flopped into his left eye and his skin was glowing in the sunlight that came through the window. Grantaire hesitantly kissed the top of his head (he wasn't sure if that was appropriate, but decided to give it a go anyway) before sliding carefully out of bed.

When Enjolras woke, Grantaire was sitting next to him, legs crossed, wearing a grey t-shirt and boxers patterned with ducklings, a pad of paper in his lap. He was drawing in a slightly frenzied manner and did not notice when Enjolras woke.

"What are you working on?" Enjolras murmured.

Grantaire jumped. "You _scared_ me," he said, laughing. He looked slightly apprehensive at the idea of revealing his work.

Enjolras smiled at the faint blush on Grantaire's cheeks. "Come on, show me," he said, grinning. Grantaire stuck his tongue out and turned the pad of paper around. Enjolras gasped (though he was loathe to admit it; "I did _not_ gasp!" Enjolras said, tossing a pillow at Grantaire's head. The dark-haired man rolled his eyes at Courfreyrac, who laughed). It was a slightly smudged sketch of Enjolras, depicted as he must have been only a few moments before: asleep. A few stray curls were flopping into one of his bright blue eyes (Enjolras tucked the same curls behind his ear, slightly embarrassed) and one of his arms was outstretched, his hand clutching the sheets in a loose grip. The sheets were pulled up most of the way, showing part of his naked chest and the short, soft hair that grew on it. He looked utterly content, as the real-life Enjolras felt.

"It's beautiful," he said, though it sounded immodest. He immediately wanted to backtrack—_I'm not beautiful, but you're beautiful and your drawing is beautiful and by the way did I mention that I love you and I've always loved you since the second I saw you_?

Before he could blurt this out, however, Grantaire captured his lips in a kiss and he was distracted by this for quite a while; at the end of which he no longer remembered how to say anything except _wow_.


End file.
